To Be a Brother
by Mondie
Summary: The Jacobs family is brimming with secret, underlying rage. How will David cope when his world comes crashing down at the hands of his father, who ought to protect, not harm, him?


**[To Be a Brother]**

[by mondie]

[started: june 8, 2003]

[disclaimer: Disney owns the Jacobs family, Jack Kelly, and any other characters from their movie.]

[this story is brought to you thanks to **now and then**'s touchy-feely moment between Sam and her younger sister when their parents are arguing. yay for plot bunnies. also mucho thanks to jack kelly for having the cheesiest lines this side of romance novels. jack kelly… I salute you.]

[p.o.v.: David Jacobs]

[**chapter one: real nice]**

[chapter written from june 8-10, 2003]

_Your family's real nice, Dave._

            When I first heard those words proclaimed sincerely by my new friend, Jack, I nearly went into shock. _Real nice_? What did he mean by that?

            Maybe he missed the way Mama rolled her eyes when Papa kissed her cheek, or the way she said his name, "Ma_yer_," with absolute loathing. Didn't he see how Papa mocked the fact that we don't have enough money for real soup? Admittedly, Jack couldn't have known about the arguments over whether Mama should become employed, which have been going on since Papa got injured at the factory… but still, wasn't the interlocking tension obvious? Perhaps Jack didn't see the way Sarah jumped up when Papa told her to get the cake, as if in fear. Or the way her eyes immediately flew to Papa's when Jack asked for more soup—she only does that when she's frightened, as well. Somehow Mama's anger when Papa knew about his birthday cake must've missed Jack's attention. And did he miss the way Mama's voice immediately flew into suspicion when Les started singing in his sleep?

            They _did_ tone it down for his presence, which I'd counted on. Mama and Papa have stiff pride, and hate people thinking they're less than hospitable and kind. I'd actually done it for Les. Poor kid gets the worst of the "lessons". Sarah's a girl, and therefore has the best chance of marrying into wealth, so she escapes most of it. I always received good marks in school and rarely give my parents something to hurt me for, so I'm also okay most of the time. But Les is loud, and rambunctious, and though he tries to be good, he's too young to be very efficient in manners. I knew that if Jack was over, my parents wouldn't dare lift a hand against Les, which would give him a night off. He needs a night off…

            I tried to convince Jack to stay for the night, which would mean a quiet, normal night, for once. But Jack, with his stupid, stubborn pride, wouldn't hear of it. "I got my own place," he insisted, heading down the fire escape as if it was a grand staircase leading into a ballroom.

            I watched him go, and felt a bit hopeless. Even with one arm, Papa's still stronger than me.

            When I entered the house again, through the kitchen window, Mama was in Sarah and Les' room, humming lightly to Les as she dressed him for bed. The humming was so ironic; beautiful and soft and sweet, as she grotesquely pushed him about like a marionette. I paused in the doorway and looked at them all. Sarah was brushing her soft hair, watching Mama and Les absentmindedly. Les was still half-asleep from his slumber in my bed, which is shoved in the kitchen because there's no other place for it. Mama looked up at me and continued humming as she tried, unsuccessfully, to stuff Les' ragdoll arms into his nightshirt. Les yowled in protest, his eyes clamped firmly shut. Mama slapped his face and hissed at him to be quiet.

            My eyes turned to Sarah's, and she looked at me too. Then we both looked away. There was nothing to be done. Parents must discipline their children… even when their children have done no wrong.

            Heavy footsteps behind me, and Papa shoved me out of the way roughly as he entered my siblings' small bedroom. He had a brown bottle in one hand. He'd been looking desperate for it all night, but doesn't like drinking in front of guests. Now he swigged it as if he had been dehydrated and dying of thirst.

            "What the hell was that singing?" he demanded of Les.

            Les blinked blearily up at him. "Huh?" he asked, slumber coating his young voice.

            "You were singing in your sleep," Papa roared. "Did you run away from David again, and sneak into one of those filthy shows?"

            "No," Les said, and his voice had never before sounded so small.

            "You know what I do to little boys who don't pay attention to their older brothers," Papa said, and began to unbuckle his belt. Les burst into tears and tried to hide in Mama's arms. She threw him to the bed in disgust and walked quickly out of the room, knocking me out of the way with her shoulder as she passed.

            I couldn't stand it. Les had just been beaten with Papa's belt the night before, and his back was still raw from it. He couldn't have another night of it. "He didn't run away, Papa. We went to the show together," I said loudly, to catch his attention. It worked. I gulped as he turned from Les and to me.

            "You did _what?_" he asked loudly, finishing his beer and throwing the bottle on the ground, where it shattered. "He's ten years old, for Christ's sake!"

            I closed my eyes and thought to myself, _you hypocrite! You beat him, and he's only ten years old!_ But I couldn't say anything, I just nodded. "I'm sorry, Papa."

            "Yeah, well you'll be _really_ sorry in just a minute," he answered, his eyes flashing dangerously as he made a thick loop of belt in his hand.

            Ten minutes later, I was fuming to myself in the darkness of the abandoned kitchen. I could hear Les screaming in the other room, and the angry sound of the leather upon his skin. Papa strode out of the room purposefully, not even looking at my bed, and headed into his room. My own back was sticky with blood, the wounds burning with shame as much as searing pain, and it hurt to even lie still on my stomach. Hot tears dripped down my cheeks, but I didn't dare brush them away. My bed creaks anytime I move, and I didn't want Papa to come out yelling at me again.

            He and Mama were arguing in their bedroom. I listened to the shouting match with a growing headache, and the area just over my left eye began to throb unbearably. My tears were falling to the same rhythm as my rapid heartbeat, and my pounding head. All sorts of obscenities were being screamed now. The neighbors used to complain about the nightly brawls. They don't notice anymore.

            I heard a light creaking sound as a door was eased open slowly, followed by a slight padding of tiptoeing feet upon the rough wooden floor. "David?"

            I tried to stop my tears, attempting at least to _try to play the role of the strong older brother. I'm not really so good at actually being it, but when Les is hurt or scared, I at least try and pretend. "Yeah, Les?"_

            His voice was so, so small. "Can I sleep with you tonight?"

            "Yeah." My bed is kinda big anyway, so I probably wouldn't even have noticed him at all had he not asked, and instead just jumped up. I stopped nursing my own wounds and focused on those of my baby brother as he crawled up onto the bed, lying next to me crooked. I looked at him quizzically. "Why are you lying like that?"

            "I stepped on the glass in my room, and my feet are bloody," he whispered. "I don't wanna get blood all over your bed."

            I noticed he was lying on his back, and wondered how he could do so. "Doesn't that hurt, being on your back?" I asked. Usually after Les is beaten, he can't even lie down on his stomach.

            He shook his head. "No. Papa beat me on my stomach this time." He winced as he let his muscles relax completely into the lying position, then attempted to save face. Les is a fighter.

            "He did _what_?" Sure enough, I could just make out red stripes of wet blood peering through the white cotton of his nightshirt. "That bastard."

            "Don't call him that," Les said, his voice trembling.

            I wanted to hug him, my poor little brother, who doesn't deserve anything he gets. I didn't, though. We were both too hurt for hugs. And, really, we're not that much of a hugging family… or an emotional family, for that matter. "Les, don't stick up for him. He _is_ a bastard. No real father would hit his ten-year old son."

            "I said don't call him that!" Les said angrily.

            There were a few minutes of what was to me tense silence, and then I began to wonder if Les had fallen asleep. Then I heard him begin to cry softly. My heart broke. There are only two things in this world that can get to me—the threat of our country's freedom, and when my little brother cries.

            I slid my hand over until I found his hand, and then grasped it firmly. "I'm sorry, Les."

            "We'll always be brothers, right, David?" he asked softly, hiccuping in his attempt to stop crying.

            "Yeah, Les. Of course."

            "I love you."

            "I love you, too. Now go to sleep. We gotta sell papers tomorrow."

            "Yeah. With Jack." His voice brightened a bit.

            I paused. "You really like Jack, don't you?"

            "Yeah," Les said, clenching my hand tighter as Papa paced about loudly in the other room. We both winced as there came the sound of a fist hitting flesh, and an anguished and sorrowful cry rose from Mama. "He makes me feel safe. And I don't really feel safe very often. Ya know?"

            "Yeah. I know."

            Ten years old, and he feels more safe on the streets of New York City with a homeless newspaper seller than in his own home.

            Good God. Is there no justice?

            There was a longer silence between us this time, and Les scooted closer to me when Papa hit Mama so hard she went flying to the ground, knocking into a wall loudly. He moved close enough to slide underneath my side, and he wrapped my arm around his waist, simultaneously burying his face in my shoulder. His cheeks were wet as they burrowed into my skin, and my arm sheltering him became smeared with the blood that had seeped through the thin nightshirt material covering his small stomach. I leaned down and kissed his forehead, which was afire with sweat.

            "David?" he asked, and I felt the vibrations more than heard the voice. I hugged his little body closer to me. He really is small for his age, something Jack had noticed right away.

            "Yeah?" I whispered, and tensed up, because the other bedroom had at last gone silent.

            "I'm glad you're my brother."

            I smiled into my pillow. "I'm glad you're my brother, too." To be an older brother to this little boy was the kindest thing God could ever have given me.

            Les fell asleep eventually, and only woke a few more times in the night, whimpering slightly. One of the times, he was charged with such a high fever that I carried him to the sink quietly and bathed off all his bloody wounds. He was a little better afterwards. And I hated Mama, I hated her so much for not being a mother to Les. _She_ should have been the one lowering his temperature, _she_ should have been the one holding him close.

            And instead it was me.

            Les hugged me around my neck as I carried him back from the sink to my bed. And he didn't say anything. But he didn't need to.

            Sometimes brothers just know.


End file.
